


Intelligence, Stupidity, And Acting; A Fine Line

by Marquis_de_LargeBaguette



Series: To Avoid Confrontation [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anderson is Sebastian Moran, Established Relationship, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, also a lot of foreshadowing, aside from the fact that Anderson is Sebastian, the foreshadowing will make sense in future chapters i promise, the ship will happen at some point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 19:58:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10951659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquis_de_LargeBaguette/pseuds/Marquis_de_LargeBaguette
Summary: There's a lot more to the Scotland Yard than what meets the eye. Sherlock Holmes gets to know first hand just how many dark secrets there are to uncover. All of them starting with Philip Anderson.





	Intelligence, Stupidity, And Acting; A Fine Line

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing is edited, as per usual with all my stories.

The New Scotland Yard is always the busiest on Monday mornings compared to the rest of the week. Officers are always buzzing about the bullpen with their cups of coffee in their hand and a file in the other. They're most often dressed the messiest. Shirts that were never bothered to be ironed. Philip Anderson knows these things just from simple observations, after just a couple of years working for the Scotland Yard. It's difficult to ignore patterns, especially when they're right in front of you, happening so often. Anderson is a member of the forensics team, but most often noted for his low intelligence after Sherlock came about to shove himself into the investigations of which they've lost their luck to. Surprisingly, before Sherlock, Sally Donovan was their best officer. Anderson was never in the picture at the time, so he can't really say for certain. Sherlock took everyone's spotlight. There may as well be no more Scotland Yard, but then there are the cases definitely worth solving, not by Sherlock.

Anderson stepped into the bullpen with his own cup of coffee from a café nearby. He wears a dark green coloured coat from Reiss, with his usual black suit underneath and carried a messenger bag on his shoulder. He passed by Lestrade on his way to his desk. As his head turned towards the Detective Inspector, he looked away.

"Morning, Anderson," he pretended to be occupied with a file of his, flipping through pages that meant absolutely nothing to him. Anderson hummed mindlessly as a response as they quickly maneuvered out of each other's ways. He knows by now there's a mound of papers on his desk, waiting to be filled out. It'll be the usual until the unusual happens.

Just as he sits down by his desk, drops his bag to the floor and slithers out of his coat, he notices some bruise on his knuckles. He sort of expected them. Some of the bruises also came with cuts and dry blood. They didn't hurt, but they were there where everyone could see. He wasn't particularly bothered. Everyone gets cuts and bruises, and this wasn't really anything to worry about, or have others worry about. If he's fine, he's fine. Having that be shrugged off, Anderson looked around the bullpen. Eyes searching for nothing, but everything at the same time. What is he searching for?Maybe another cup of coffee, right after he finishes the current one.

His thoughts are quickly torn from him when he hears an aggressive burst through the door. His head turns towards the direction – in fact, every head turns towards the door. They don't expect anyone other than Sherlock Holmes and his partner John Watson. Probably something with Lestrade. Always something with Lestrade. He notes how Sherlock walks to Lestrade's office without looking at anyone or anything. Like he already knows the place. Every corner and every wall memorized, and that's because he does. Obviously. How? He's Sherlock bloody Holmes, that's how. Then there's John, who tails behind him, observing the place despite the fact he has been in the Scotland Yard before. Perhaps trying to look for something new. There's nothing ever new.

"Freak is here already?" Sally sauntered up to Anderson's cubicle. They both look towards the consulting detective and his colleague, watching them enter Lestrade's office. The door closes behind them silently.

"If there's ever a time he isn't called in, let me know so I can celebrate in pure bliss," Anderson shuffled the things on his desk, smiling a little bit when he hears Sally laugh.

"I wish. He's a petulant, privileged man. Always walking in here like he's the best."

He knows how hard Sally worked to be in the position she's in right now. For Sherlock to waltz in there had immensely bad affects, for obvious reasons. Sherlock thinks the Scotland Yard 'needs' him. That couldn't be farther from the truth.

"Lestrade needs him," Anderson commented disdainfully. His back leaned against his seat, eyes shifting up to the sergeant. She merely scoffed, her weight transferred from one foot to the other. "If we're all out of luck, we call him in, because we're all hopeless little detectives."

"Since when did detective work turn into playing your best card instead of working with your worst cards?"

"Ever since convenience was a thing," he replied.

His comments were always wittier in the mornings. It might've been the affect of the coffee he consumed. Sally believes that if Sherlock actually listened to what Anderson had to say, he'd tolerate the man a little more. But there would never be a chance where Sherlock listens without being in a world of his own. Sally gave him a small smile before leaving to her own office. He was left alone once more.He hadn't even realized the fact that he was fidgeting with a magpie statue. The first day he brought it in, he was questioned as to why he has it in the first place. He made up some poor excuse that a family member of his gave it to him as a present, thus it had a sentimental value. The truth is, he bought it with his own money, for himself. It was a black magpie, perched on a branch. It's a natural beauty. Whenever he didn't feel like filling in papers, he stared at the statue. Admiration at such an intelligent creature.

Anderson slides the magpie to the corner of his desk and reached down to his bag to grab his phone out. With his phone in one hand, he leans back in his seat. Eyes shift around the bullpen, a little to suspiciously before opening his phone. Three notifications, three texts, from one person. His head snaps up before he could read them. A case.

Maybe he does know what the texts are about. He doesn't read them just yet.

* * *

 

Officers and the forensics team arrive at the crime scene. Yellow tape are put up and police cars guard the place of wondering, curious pedestrians. Anderson tugs a glove over his hand as he eyes Sherlock walking towards him with Lestrade.

"A murder. The body was found in a dumpster nearby," Lestrade motioned his hand towards the back alley of a building that just so happens to be a hotel. Some of the forensics are already heading back there. "Two puncture wounds in the back. Precisely on the upper back, and the lower back. The puncture wounds are right on the spine." Lestrade's eyes shift between Sherlock, John and Anderson, except it's more of a quick glance at Anderson instead of a gaze. Sherlock doesn't catch on with the subtle movement, so he doesn't care much.

Anderson is the first of them to head back in the alley, then followed by the detective and doctor. People move out of the way for Sherlock. The victim, a definite male in his late twenties and early thirties, lay inside a dumpster in a purposeful position. Lying on his stomach, his back is shown, bare of any clothes. While his trousers were kept on, it was almost like the murderer wanted them to find the puncture holes. Sherlock proceeded in climbing on top of the dumpster, his feet balancing on the edge as he leans down lower to get a better look. It's silent, as it should be with the consulting detective around.

"Normal puncture wounds," he concludes, hopping back onto the ground. "Small screws dug deep into the skin, deep enough to hit the spine. One wasn't enough, so the murderer added another in the lower back. At most, he would've been paralyzed within the legs, and he wouldn't be able to escape."

"That doesn't explain how he's dead," Anderson says.

"Yes it does," he interrupts quickly after. "Sustaining an injury in your spine for weeks without some form of treatment causes urinary dysfunction, respiratory infection, or bedsores, thus resulting in death. Do go back to health science class before talking out loud. You infect everyone around you."

The man scowled at him as his smug expression didn't even change. Looking away, forensics got to work. Anderson pulled out his phone to give a quick read at the three texts shot to him.

> _M at: 4:53 AM_

_I hope you like this one. I know I do. xx._

> _M at: 8:38 AM_

_Take care of your hands, by the way. I noticed they were in bad condition this morning. xx._

> _M at: 9:12 AM_

_Soon, soon, soon. Love you. xx._

He smiled. It's all more than just puncture wounds.


End file.
